The Importance of Being in Character

It was a very hot day. The sun was beating upon the little neighborhood like no tomorrow. This caused the citizens to moan, groan, and in general hate the weathermen with their cheap suits and dusty toupees. Televisions were constantly switched on, with predictions of a cooler day coming "soon". But no one wanted to hear about the future's weather. They wanted autumn, and they wanted it right then.

Strangely enough, someone was outside, staring into the face of the brilliant light. They lay on the flowerbed behind Number Four, Privet Drive. In their eyes there was a look of grief and contemplation, and the glasses in front of them reflected the sun's rays most brilliantly. Black hair stuck up hazardously, oddly framing the pale face - this rather created the illusion of a skunk in the backyard, instead of a just-fifteen year old boy.

His name was Harry Potter, no regular boy. (Then again, you must have understood that from the get-go - who in their right mind lies around in gardens?) He in fact was stranger than that woman next door who organizes her socks according to scent; more so than the man with the large collection of aglets; he even surpasses the people who decide it'd be rather good for their image in the media to throw a few bombs on a neighboring country or two.

Harry was a wizard, learning magic at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizard- -

But just then the world began to contract - birds blinked away, the sun popped, everything lost color and so Harry decided to join in, too. A sigh had washed over the scene, and what had seemed to be the perfect setting for a story was dissolving.

As a matter of fact, it was the beginning of a tale, and it would have been a damn good one, if not for the failed imagination and unfortunate occurrences belonging to one very distraught woman.

She had hair of medium length, rusty colored but nearly blonde and brown eyes. Her disposition was usually good-natured, but it didn't seem to be that day.

Named Joanne Kathleen Rowling, she was a very good writer - and extremely successful. As any common person might know, it was she who wrote the Harry Potter series, which followed this certain boy through his seven years at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. They always managed to captivate readers, produce hundreds of thousands of fans, and top bestseller lists.

It was August of 2000 at the time, and not nearly as warm as Harry's world had been. The fourth book, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, had been published just a bit ago, and now Rowling had set herself to start up on the fifth installment.

And she had just gotten started on the first paragraph or so when the unavoidable infuriation, Real Life, intervened.

Turning automatically to her right, Rowling picked up the ringing phone on the mahogany desk.

"Hullo?" she answered.

"Oh, oh - hullo, Ms. WOW-ling -" (Joanne rolled her eyes and waited for the hearty laughter to subdue) "- this is Miriam Camden of The Englishman's Inquirer, and you have time for an interview, don't you? I'd like to ask some questions about your feelings on Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire selling over 370,000 copies in the first few days alone of publication, good Lord, I don't think anyone saw that coming!; the horrible - so I've been told - event that happens in the last few chapters of it; what your plan is for the fifth Harry book ..."

Joanne gritted her teeth, trying to keep her mouth from forming the words she had in her mind. There were so many responses she was aching to say, and one in particular tugged at her lips and her will: "Oh, I had been ready to start it off just then, and the tact I had going was to keep nosy reporters out of my face so I can get just one bloody moment of peace", but she caught herself just in time and instead put on a Friendly Face (difficult though, it was).

"I was working on the first chapter, actually, and if you're asking for an interview, I suppose you've already set an appointment?" She felt ready to burst with anger. For her, sure, writing in cafés or on trains was easy enough; she was very flexible that way. But the time when she was able to sit down and concentrate only on the story in progress was rather sacred. Anyone dare interrupt that and instantly, there goes the time needed to devote to Harry, Privet Drive, and unbearable heat.

"Er," Miriam spluttered. "Appointment... Well, you see, here's the funny thing..."

So Joanne humored the poor woman and allowed her to give the "bute-moment interviews are all the rage in Southern Africa, and don't you want your favorite newspaper to be modern and fashionable?" speech for the next few minutes, then said the warmest goodbye possible and hung up, turning back to the manuscript and trying to get back into her "mood".

However, it was easier said than done and Rowling ended up boiling water for tea instead of continuing the first page - which proved to be yet another hindrance, rather than stimulant... for there was no tea in the house.

***

Any normal, unimaginative being can say that setting and characters can only exist in the creator's mind until they are able to find something in which to illustrate these thoughts and share and elabte with others.

Worse fools will tell you that these elements don't even exist at all, not physically, but are merely descriptive words strung together to form amusing works of fiction.

To say that they are right is to be close-minded and thoroughly sensible... Now, if you would spare a moment to have an imagination, Harry really isn't gone, in fact, he's currently sitting up, wiping mud off of his shirt and yawning.

"If anyone doesn't mind, I'll be getting up now," he said to no one in particular. Brushing the damp soil off his jeans, Harry started towards his house where a spat was taking place.

"Go to your room, Dudley!"

"But Mummy, I haven't even finished my snack yet!"

"Don't you 'mummy' me, boy," Aunt Petunia snarled.

Harry hopped up the back stairs, and opened the screened door into the occurring scene. Dudley was sitting at the kitchen table, looking teary and red-faced. In front of him lay half of a sandwich. Aunt Petunia was standing behind him, looking meand staring intensely at the plate, as if wishing it dead. But when the door clanged behind Harry, she changed expressions immediately and beamed.

"Ah, there you are, Harry. I suppose you'd like a delicious big dinner before you're off to Hogwarts?"

The boy politely declined and continued through the room to the hall and up the stairs. He bounded up two at a time and ran into Uncle Vernon at the top. The man awkwardly patted Harry on the back. "I'm sure you've packed already because you're always such an organized young man, so then trot off to bed and we can be off at a nice time tomorrow morning!"

Although Harry remembered days of torment and hatred with his relatives, because Rowling wasn't properly color him surprised, he basked in the happiness of finally being appreciated. He didn't mind not understanding what was happening; it wasn't like the whole lying-in-the-flowerbed-thing had made sense, anyways...

***

"This is absolutely wretched," said Ronald Weasley, wringing his hands.

Harry huffed and folded his arms, looking about the train station. Hermione Granger was nowhere in sight eight minutes before the Hogwarts Express was set to leave the platform. The three had written via owls previous to September 1^st, all promising to arrive promptly at a quarter to eleven so they could board together.

Ron and Harry had both thought that Hermione, the manner-of-fact one, would be there right at 10:45 on the dot, but they were apparently wrong as once she did show, she was approximately ten minutes late. Ron was very relieved, and he released his tension by grabbing his two best friends by the hand and yanking them through the barrier forcefully, their baggage trailing behind.

On Platform nine and three-quarters, Harry handed his things off to be packed in with the rest to some conductor or whatnot (it turned out to be Cho Chang), and told his friends he'd snatch a compartment for them. Walking up through the corridors of the train to the front, Harry stroked his chest pocket. He was busy hoping desperately someone would ask him to join the rest of the students at back, so he could whip out his shiny Prefect badge and tell the poor sod to move aside, buddy.

In a minute he found himself sitting with Hermione and Ron with the train station flying away. He was sorry that he hadn't had the chance to flaunt his newfound power. So you can imagine that when Draco Malfoy tapped hurriedly on the door to their compartment, Harry was positively ecstatic to let him inside.

"Hey - guys." Malfoy was out of breath and spat the words, then sucked air back in.

"You've been running?" Ron asked, sounding rather dense, as it was quite obvious that he had been, just moments ago, jogging away from the back of the train.

"Can you really tell?" Draco bit his lip and nervously ran his hands over his practicale hair, flattening it down and pressing his hands against his cheeks - he must have been trying to return his pinkish skin back to the normal pale.

"Well, you must not do it often then," Harry said bluntly. Draco nodded pitifully.

"Why were you running?" Hermione cut in, speaking for the first time.

Draco leaned in and whispered: "Longbottom's back there. He was poking fun at my 'lame insults' and called Crabbe and Gregory an insult to even the cavemen. But they're my friends!" He sniffed.

"Why didn't you just call him a hypocrite?" Hermione suggested.

Malfoy opened his mouth weakly but his expression immediately froze as the compartment door opened. Neville stepped inside, grinning like a loon, and squished next to Draco. "There's my favorite little Antipodean Opaleye!"

Hermione whispered to Ron, "Since when was Neville a dragon expert? Wasn't he always brilliant at Herbology, and not Care of Magical Creatures?" Ron shrugged stupidly.

Encouraged by Ron's shrugs (though intelligent they were not), Hermione cleared her throat and had to practically yell over Harry's "Mash Malfoy!" to be heard.

It was a simple question - the explanation was, too. However the question gave birth to more questions whereas the explanation only ended everything. The explanation will follow the question as it always does, and so here is what she said:

"Why is Neville beating up Malfoy?"

These words caused sudden silence. Hermione dared to ask the others she was thinking.

"Why isn't Malfoy putting up a fight? Why is Harry being such a brat? Why is Ron an idiot?"

Suddenly Neville sat back in his seat, staring at Draco, who had started sniffing at the air. Indeed, some new aroma had arrived.

"Why does this compartment suddenly smell of...tea?" Hermione wrinkled her nose.

Ron's shrug was most rudely interrupted by a settling of steam thick as fog, and then the steam was intruded upon by a drop of hot water. The scene, confused, decided it may as well self-destruct, as there didn't seem much else to do.

And there was the flowerbed again.

***

Joanne was sitting at her a warm mug in front of her. Although she had now succeeded in taking Harry up to the third chapter, she felt something was missing.

"Ah, a biscuit's what I need!" And so she turned, a minute later, to a biscuit-free cabinet.